


Milk and Honey

by beatleslaz



Category: The Beatles
Genre: Alternate Universe, F/F, F/M, Gender or Sex Swap, M/M, Work In Progress
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-05
Updated: 2017-07-11
Packaged: 2018-11-28 04:43:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,878
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11410452
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/beatleslaz/pseuds/beatleslaz
Summary: It’s the stories you know and love but with a twist! Paula McCartney is an aspiring teenage musician who recently met Joan Lennon, a hard headed girl who’s determined to get what she wants. Though their crazy lives have many twists and turns they always have each other to go back to, right?





	1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

It’s a warm July day, the sky is blue and filled with fluffy white clouds that are slowly making their way across it, carrying the light happiness of summer with them. There’s a slight breeze that tickles the tree tops and brushes the few locks that have escaped the pony tail in Paulas dark hair back as she rides her bike through Woolton, a guitar around her back. Her friend, Iris, is pedaling in front of her, her guitar across her back as well. 

“Come on, I’ll take you to the fete, I’ve been wantin’ you to meet the girls for awhile,” Iris had said a few minutes ago while they were in Paulas bedroom on her floor with their guitars across their laps. “You might even be able to get into the band!” She had said. That’s what really made the teenager jump up and rush down the stairs, past her mum and sister and onto her bike.

“Be home by 7!” Was the last thing she heard her mother call from of the kitchen window as she pumped her bike pedals faster and faster. 

Iris had only vaguely mentioned her group of friends with a band a few times before and apparently, she didn’t know how desperately Paula was looking for a decent band to join.

They’ve taken this trip once or twice, if not to the same place then definitely down the same road. Both girls wouldn’t be surprised if they had traveled nearly every road this side of the Mersey at least fifty times. The few cars that pass wave and the seagulls flying high above cry out over the breezes that carry the smell of the salty ocean that lies not to far to the west. The joy of summer trickles down each street that holds children eating ice lollies, playing football in the soft grass and simply enjoying the fact that they don’t have school for another month. 

Both girls are in their summer casual, white blouses tucked into thin skirts that barely touch their knees. Paula has a little pink flower that she found in her mothers garden tucked behind her ear, its petals dancing in the wind like her hair which is pulled back into a curly pony tail. Her face is slightly pudgy,“ leftover puppy fat,” her mum calls it. The teenagers eyebrows and lovely eyelashes frame her large droopy eyes perfectly and she’ll never get tired of her friends asking, “however do you get such perfect eyebrows and such long lashes Paula? Teach us!” because she’ll always shake her head and smile,“Sorry girls, these babies are natural and untouched!” The limited amount of make up on Paulas face is barely needed but on such a nice day she couldn’t help getting into her tiny stash of powders and shadows. 

As Iris quickly takes a turn onto Rosbery Street so does Paula, St. Peters Church coming into view with each pump of their feet. There’s a small carnival going on, the sound of children laughing as they toss small bean bags and balls at bowling pins starts to fill both girls ears as they get closer.

They both come to a stop at the bottom of an oak tree and set their bikes against it. Fixing her hair back into its original form Paula adjusts her guitar strap (which is really just a string hooked to both ends) and follows Iris. They both maneuver through the small tents that cover the churches yard until they get to a little stage set up in front of one of the stone walls of the building.

There’s a small crowd, most of them teenagers who are stationed at the front and aren’t interested in the childish games of the fair; waiting to see if their trip to the annual church fete was worth it.

Iris leads them through the crowd, “The band’s pretty good, especially their front girl, I think you’ll like her,” she says as they both settle into a spot in the middle of the group of people.

A man with a clipboard and a horrible comb-over rushes onto the compact stage and taps the microphone until a loud screech blares over the speakers and everyone flinches. He clears his throat, “Ladies and Gentlemen I’d like to introduce the entertainment for the day, a skiffle group from Alerton, The Quarrygirls!” A faint applause comes from the crowd, except for one man, probably in his early thirties, to the side of the stage with bouncy red hair who whistles and cheers as if Ellie Presley is walking out.

And, truthfully, it’s anything but.

Six girls shuffle on stage, one has striking blonde hair and is in a white blouse and beige skirt with a washboard in her hand. Another two have blackish hair, are in white shirts with black skirts and are holding a banjo and guitar with shaky hands. Another is in the very back and standing next to a contraption that looks like a broom tied to a wash basin with a long string down the middle. The drummer is far to the side, blondish hair and a white shirt and intent eyes glued to the person standing at the microphone.

She’s the girl that catches Paulas attention the most. 

She has brownish hair that’s lightly being tugged at by the soft summer breeze, also short curled bangs that have a faint brush of red to them. Her white skirt is complemented by her red and white checked shirt that has buttons undone at the top. Her nose is a little pointed and she seems to have a little too much blush on her pale cheeks. She’s squinting down at the crowd, her nose is stuck in the air; it makes her look arrogant but her smile says other wise. She waits a moment to flash it, but once her pearly whites are showing it’s obvious that she’s just letting off some of the nerves. 

It’s like all of the others on stage drift away.

She takes a breath and her smile blossoms like a flower.

“Well kiddies this little diddly is called, “Come Go with Me.” She speaks and her voice is rough and challenging but also modest and sweet. Still sounding like a young girl and not yet a fully grown women. The rest of the band visually relaxes as she shoots them all a smile and counts them in.

They launch into the song and Paula can’t help cringing with every wrong guitar note that’s hit, every beat that’s missed, and every twang of that awful sounding wash basin. "Two fingers,” she notes, the girl in the front is using two fingers for most of her chords. “Oh! Banjo chords!” Paula thinks.

“Hey, Iris, who’s that girl?” She asks, pointing towards the singer while her friend is bumping along to the (unsteady) beat next to her. “That’s Joan, she’s the one I was talkin’ about.” Iris says happily, Paula simply nods. 

There is talent, potential, Paula can see it. The way Joan holds herself at the microphone, her head bopping back and fourth, her legs spread, thighs straining against her skirt, nothing like a normal, a proper girl would be like when performing for anything.

She’s good to, looks good, somewhat sounds good, she’s a natural performer. Her body moves with each measure, she wails into the microphone and her guitar looks like a protected weapon in her hands even though she’s pulling its triggers all wrong. Each strum is like another shout for attention, for her to be the most noticed which isn’t that hard because Joan is the only one performing. The others just seem to dutifully play their parts in their leaders shadow.

Paula is mesmerized until- “…Come go with me, Come go with me to the, penitentiary!” 

She can’t help the laugh that falls from her mouth. Those were definitely not the words, but it was creative nonetheless. 

She looks up at her, Joan, and smiles wide. This girl seems different, she doesn’t even know the words to the song she’s singing but it works for her. Everything she’s doing is wrong yet right and Paula can’t help but be intrigued by her want to know more about this girl.  
——-

The show ends after about twenty minutes, also after many more missed chords and wrong lyrics. The man with the comb-over runs back on stage to tell everyone that, “the Quarrygirls will be back in about an hour for their evening show at the dance hall across the street.”

A film of sweat from the summer heat has stuck Paulas blouse collar to her neck and she pulls at it as she watches the band file into the church. “Come on, I’ll introduce you.“ Iris say and they shuffle across the less busy yard to the large wooden doors.

The music room of the church seems pretty mellow when they walk in. Not much is in there besides a piano in the corner, the old smell that only pertains to churches, and chairs which hold the band that had been playing moments ago.  
They’re sweaty, and they all have beers in their hands. There’s little conversation going on and Paula can vaguely hear a, “We were fucking grand girls, swept em’ of their feet,” before a pair of dark eyes fall on her friend.

“Iris! see you made it,” Joan says, standing from her chair and taking a swig of the beer in her hand which, Paula notes, has nails bitten to the skin. Iris and her walk to stand in front of six pairs of expecting eyes, all of which are on Iris, “Yep, just wanted to introduce you to my friend,” She says and everyone slowly shifts to the other, seemingly out of place girl in the room.

Paula’s nervous but confident, she doesn’t know why but her hands quickly become clammy with sweat but she stands her ground and looks intently at each girl in the room. She looks right at Joan but quickly averts her gaze to the churches bulletin board when Iris turns the attention to her.

Joan shakes her head and smirks, “‘Cor this’s that girl you’ve been pesterin’ me about ?” she asks, “Says she plays?” she adds. Iris shakes her head and smiles gleefully, “This’s the one. Paula, mate of mine from school.”

"That’s odd.” Paula thinks, “Iris has never mentioned Joan before.”

Joan steps forward and gives Paula a once over before outstretching a hand and smirking,

“Joan.”

Paula does the same and smiles, “Paula.”

Joans hands are rough and her grip is hard, unlike Paulas daily lotion-ed soft hands and her dainty lady handshake. 

Joan is older. Paula could tell that right off the bat, because Joan is confident and the way she holds herself on and off the stage shows that she knows a thing or two more about life than Paula does.There’s a fine amount of sweat on the older girls forehead and it seems that the extra amounts of blush on her cheeks have been washed away.

“You any good on that?” Joan asks, tipping the end of her beer bottle towards the guitar on Paulas back, interested in the proposition that she may have a potential guitarist on her hands.

Paula nods and swings the instrument to her front, “How can you be good if you can’t even hold the damn thing right?” Joan asks her, earning an assortment of giggles from the girls behind her. Paula lets it slide, her demeanor turning into one of pure confidence and charm as she remembers all of Joans missed chords from the show. Her left hand slides up the fret board and she smiles. 

This is what she needed, a chance to show off.

She looks at Joan with tempting eyes that say something like, “Oh really, well lets see if you can do this,” before she dives into, “20 Flight Rock.”

She’s radiating charm and confidence that only certain people possess during the whole song. Tapping her foot against the old church tile floor the sound echos beautifully as she shakes her head with the beat. 

Joan’s staring at her, expressionless. She’s watching with squinted eyes, the same eyes she had on stage, as Paulas fingers glide skillfully over the strings and her sweet voice floats over the room.

It’s almost like a challenge, who’s better than the other. Even though they just met each other it’s like two animals circling one another, as interested as they are terrified.

“Ooo well I got a boy with a record machine when it comes to rockin’, he’s a king…”

It’s good. Really good, but Joans face stays still as stone. Her eyes are squinting again as they try to focus on Paulas hands.

“They’re fine” Joan finds herself thinking, “Normal hands making steller noises and…not so bad in the eyes…” She takes another drink and watches.  
“She’s good. As good as me!” She thinks but quickly kicks the thought out of her head.

Paula looks at Joan and holds her gaze with the older girl, almost like talking with her eyes, boasting herself with her eyes. She looks at the other girls who look amazed while the words flow from her lips and her fingers do the job that has become as easy as riding a bike. A thin line of sweat breaks out on her forehead, good so far, a wave of confidence washes over her when she decides to steal another look at Joan. 

Joan has to admit to herself, she doesn’t know half of the chords that Paula is using. The song ends and Paula brushes a few locks of hair from her face while Joan looks at her expecting like. 

“That all?”

Paula almost laughs, “what, can you do better?!” She thinks but holds her tongue. “Well I can do Lisa Richard if you want me to…” 

“No lets hold out a little bit. This is break time anyhow… want a beer?” Paula looks at Iris who is nodding and moving with Joan to the tiny steel cooler placed next to the piano. Joan places her already opened beer on the piano top before diving in front of her to get two more bottles.

Paula can’t help it, and would swear she didn’t but,as she sets her guitar against a chair she watches as Joan bends over to open the lid and shuffle around the ice. Thank god none of the other girls are watching as she catches herself and quickly looks away with flushed cheeks.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” She thinks to herself.

She distracts herself by moving towards the piano, Joan has retrieved the beers and hands one to Iris then Paula. She takes it while Joan downs her own and reaches again to get a new bottle. This time, Paula makes sure she’s looking down at the ivory keys that are under her soft fingertips.

Iris walks back over to the other girls while Paula puts her unopened bottle on the piano top and sits down on the wooden bench. There’s a soft murmur of voices behind her that don’t even notice how she’s is now softly pressing down on the keys. “Break time for them maybe,” Paula thinks. After completely pushing Joan from her mind she doesn’t notice when her newest acquaintance walks up behind her and takes yet another drink.

It’s not until a hand is on her right shoulder and auburn hair is falling like water onto her left that Paula jumps from Joans to close-for-comfort proximity. Her pointed nose is now just above Paulas eyes and the hand on her shoulder is gripping tight for balance. Taking a small sniff Paulas face scrunches up, Joan reeks of alcohol. “How unprofessional,” she thinks. 

“Alright?” The older slurs and Paula realizes shes been hitting the same chord over and over again while she studied the older girls features. “Yeah, sorry,“ she mumbles before recovering quickly and starting a new song, determined to focus only on the piano. A small chuckle tickles Paulas ear, "I know this one,” Joan whispers hoarsely. Paula glances at Joan and grins huge like shes just met Caroline Berry. 

But somehow, she thinks, this is better than that would ever be.

For some reason, it feels very good to get approval from this girl. But then again it feel good for Paula to get approval from anyone. It’s a bad day if Paula McCartneys charm doesn’t work on someone. 

Going back to the keys she concentrates on the simple notes, easy measures of song that she knows well, until Joan starts to sing.

“…Only you can make this change in me  
for it’s true, you are my destiny  
When you hold my hand  
I understand the magic that you do…”

Paula can’t help it when she shivers because Joans hot breath is sliding down her neck and her callused fingers, rough just like her personality seems to be, are snaking up her neck and pinching just a bit and -not to mention- her voice sounds like a beautiful gift crafted by fucking Christ almighty herself.

Paula starts to feel something, something deep in her that could easily be compared to lava being dumped into the pit of her stomach. She has a feeling in her head that accompanies it but she’s not too familiar with it.

She vaguely remembers feeling the same way when Edward Butlin had slow danced with her at the “End of Term Shin Dig,” then afterwards taken her behind the schools tool shed for a slow snogging session. Her first dance and kiss in one night.

“My one and only you.”

But only vaguely.

Paula finishes the song so softly it almost seems like she’s not playing it at all anymore. Mind fuzzy her eyes are half lidded and her breathing ragged, her heart beating so. Joan stands up straight and the younger catches herself before she falls backwards onto the floor. Close call to or Joan may have noticed that Paula had been leaning back against her.

Paula quickly tries to clear her head and come back to reality as she thinks about whats’ just happened.

That’s odd. This is so odd. She has to get out of here. 

Taking deep breaths the younger stands up and walks past Joan, avoiding any further conversation. The oldest looks a little confused in her semi-drunk state while Paula walks straight to Iris. “Hey I’ve got to get home, my night to put mums tea on,” she smiles politely as she says it and nods to the other girls who had been talking. Iris nods understandingly and sets her empty beer bottle on the ground, “Okay, well I guess we’ll see you girls later huh?” she says, standing from the chair that Joan had been in when they had first arrived. The girls still sitting say goodbye and smile at Paula as politely as she had done to them. 

They don’t seem as intimidating as their leader.

“Bye Joan,” Iris says as they start to walk back to the doors. Paula glances back and sees Joans face plastered with a smile, “Bye Iris…” It’s just before the door shuts that Paula hears quite clearly, “And bye bye Miss. Paula!”

The old oak doors shut with a bang that stirs the dust in the room, the sunlight catching it in their bright beams that stream through the old windows. The girls in the middle of the room carry on their light gossip session while their leader sits on the piano bench. Joans smile never leaves until she turns back around to gaze at the piano where she finds an unopened beer bottle sitting on the top. The contents inside are warm and fuzzy just like her.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ll be doing chapters with POV from any person I feel like writing from lol. Obviously I’ll pick one girl to focus on eventually, but right now I’m really enjoying writing each girls thoughts. Also I’m really hating how short these chapters are coming out, I’m going to try my best to make them as long as possible. Enjoy!

After the evening show at the hall across the street the small band has to walk back to the church to get all of their equipment cases. Joan swings her guitar around her back and says goodbye to her mates. 

“Bye Patricia, don’t forget we’re going to Blackpool Wednesday!” She yells over her shoulder before opening one of the large wooden doors that has a cross placed above it.

She ignores the, “Jesus is with you everyday,” sign that’s nailed to the door.

The sun has almost gone down and the sky is lightly painted with pinks and reds. The dark clouds of nighttime have already filled most of the heavens when the exhausted teenager steps outside.

There are a few people rolling up tents and taking down the carnival games while the man that had announced their performance earlier, with a clipboard and bad comb-over, is sitting in a chair with his eyes closed at the far end of the yard, looking exhausted.

Joan begins to walk away from the church when she hears a cheerful voice behind her. “You were lovely today darling,” her father, Julius, says coming from the side of the church to walk with his daughter.

Joan turns and smiles tiredly,“Didn’t see you there, thanks.”

Julius Lennon has bouncy red hair with short curls and he’s a splitting image of Joan, or rather, Joan is a splitting image of him. He often forgets to shave and usually has some kind of scruff on his face. His hair matches his bouncy personality that lightens up any room he’s in. As opposed to his four other brothers, Julius is the youngest and most lively of the bunch.

Joan continues to walk and her father begins to follow her, she’s thankful that the alcohol has worn off but upset because the tingling numbness has left, too. It’s silent between the father and daughter as they walk from the churches yard down the street until the church disappears behind them altogether. 

The rumble of the buses that are making their last few stops for the night can be heard a few streets down while mothers calling their children in for bed float over the green lawns that are abandoned quickly.

Julius doesn’t push his daughter to talk or acknowledge him because he knows that she’s tired, and when Joan is tired you shouldn’t talk too much to her. But, he is happy when she finally does say something. It’s a line he has heard many times before and in many different situations. It’s at a street corner when she says it, one way takes Joan home and the other way takes Julius home.

“Can I stay at yours tonight? Milo won’t notice.” 

Joan tries this same line every so often and her father always says the same thing. Julius chuckles and stands at his daughters side, “He will,” he says quietly, wrapping an arm around her shoulders and kissing the top of her head. An almost silent “humph,” can be heard as Joan pushes her father away. “Fine,” she says, balling her hands into fists and turning the other direction. “Oh love, don’t be like that, you can come by tomorrow for tea if you’d like,” Julius tries but Joan is walking, marching, down the street that leads to Mendips.

“If you’re lucky,” she yells down, not even taking a second look at her father.  
Julius sighs and turns to walk to his house, thankful that he’ll be home in time to tuck his two other children into bed.

_____

251 Menlove Avenue, or rather, Mendips, is a nice little house with a nice little lawn and a nice little garden. In the upper middle-class end of Woolton, the simi-detached house has a freshly painted fence and gate that stands between it and the street. The windows are freshly washed and the gutter freshly cleaned. It is, so the owner hopes, fit for a queen.

Soft moonlight is dripping like dew on the blades of grass that seem to wave like hands in the calm summer sea breeze. 

The calm of the night is interrupted by a sleepy, annoyed teenager who has to stop and take a few deep breaths before opening the house gate and making her way across the yard, making sure to not stumble onto her uncles tulips

Joan opens the door of the Smith residence as quietly as possible, but to no avail.

“Joan?” An all to familiar voice asks from the live-in room, it sounds expecting and agitated. Joan closes the front door with her foot, “Here Milo,” she sighs. Joan sets her guitar at the bottom of the staircase and walks to the kitchen. Flipping on the light she winces as she hears the grunt of her uncle standing up from his recline chair.

Milo Smith is a humble man who can either be found playing pitch at the Woolton dance hall or collecting scraps at fish yards for his cats. His presence as the oldest of the four Stanley boys is very apparent. If you were to pass Milo Smith on the street you might notice his nose slightly in the air and his hand gripping a little to tightly to his old fisherman pipe.

When Joan opens the fridge she ignores the new presence that enters the kitchen. Milo has one hand in his pocket and another holding his pipe up to his mouth. He takes a breath and blows smoke from his lips, “I thought you said you’d be home at seven,” he says, disgruntled.

Joan closes the fridge unsatisfied and walks to the tiny food pantry, silently noting that the clock on the wall says 8:36. “Yeah, sorry, Patricia and I got distracted making fun of this old man at the fete who had this awful comb-over. You should have seen-”

“I will not tolerate you coming home late and disrespecting my rules anymore Joan Lennon!”

Milo cuts her off just as she’s getting a can of beans from the pantry shelf. “Lay off Milo, it’s been a long day,” Joan says aggravated from exhaustion and politely excusing her uncles interruption. She pulls the can opener and a spoon out of a drawer. Setting the beans, spoon and opener on the counter top Joan gets a piece of bread from the bread box.

“I’m serious Joan! Any more of this nonsense and you’ll be locked in this house for the rest of the summer, am I making myself clear!?”

“Crystal.” Joan says through clenched teeth as she shoves her bread into the little toaster on the counter, not even glancing at her uncle.

Milo smiles slightly, sure he’s gotten his point across. He turns to go to bed, “Don’t forget to shut the lights off,” and with that he’s climbing the stairs while Joan opens her can of beans, twisting the openers knob a little to hard.

She sighs tiredly as she places her freshly fried toast on a plate and starts to scoop beans onto it. 

Once she has her plate made Joan puts the remains of the beans in the fridge and her spoon into the sink. She shuffles for the kitchen light before grabbing her guitar with her free hand and starting upstairs to her room.

Once in her messy domain Joan sets her guitar at the end of her bed and her plate of food on her desk before slipping her black Mary Janes and socks from her feet. Cracking her toes she grabs her food and sits on her unmade bed.

It’s pitch black dark outside, moonlight is spilling into the room and the only sounds are that of the tomcats running from the alleys down the streets and the faint boat horns from the docks in the distance.

Pulling her feet up under her Joan licks her fingers and sets her empty plate next to the one from last night on her bedside table. Her uncle cooks, just not that much. Once, maybe twice a week or on a special occasion like a birthday or maybe Joan getting a ‘C’ in science or something.

Standing up the teenager makes her way quietly from her room to the white tiled bathroom.

Milo Smith keeps his house very tidy and is very proud of his lemon scented, rose curtained bathroom. Now if you ask him about his nieces room, well, you might want to be prepared for one frustrated uncle.

Once in the small washroom Joan takes a washcloth and starts to rub the little amount of make-up from her face. Tentatively she starts to notice the naughty little pimples that decided to show up from the days activities. To tired to shower (she vows to shower tomorrow) Joan runs a brush through her hair, wincing with every knot, then walks back to her room to slip out of her skirt, blouse and bra, throwing them into the corner where an overflowing laundry basket lays .

She has a little wardrobe opposite of her desk which she pulls a nightie out of. It’s one of her favorites, pink with lace. Her Aunt Georgia had gotten it for her but Joan didn’t like that it was so long so she cut it with scissors so it would only come down to her mid thigh. Her aunt found out but wasn’t upset, instead, she sewed a new string of lace on the bottom to cover up Joans sloppy cutting job. Joan will never forget the fear she felt when her uncle yelled her name when she got home from school. It had been laundry day and she forgot to hide the nightie. Her aunt quickly swooped in in-between Uncle Milo’s pacing and yelling in the live-in room and smiled. She grabbed the ball of pink lace from her husbands hand, “Oh Joan, I love what you’ve done to your nightie, let me fix up the bottom for you though. I’ll have it done by tomorrow.”

No, Joan will never forget that day.

Slipping the nightie on she shuts her light off and climbs under her duvet. The small posters of Ellie Presley and Bailey Holly that paint her walls look down upon the sleepy teenager. Joan looks up at them and sighs, such beauty, such talent. What the girl would give to get five minutes with Ellie Presley.

What a long day it has been. Very nerve wrecking because today had been her third live performance and she was slowly getting used to the feel of playing live. It had been fun nonetheless because she had been playing with her friends and, boy, were those girls loyal. Almost no pay and Joan made them practice at least three times a week, yeah, that’s something not a lot of teenage girls would be willing to do for one of their friends.

The morning show had been grand! Sounded good, the audience was steady and her father had even been there.

That means a lot to Joan, whether she lets anyone know that or not.

And then Iris had showed up with that girl-

Paula

Joan smiles as she snuggles more into her covers. What a lovely proper girl. She had a flower in her hair and everything, not to mention she hadn’t even drunk her beer. “I have to get home to make mums tea,” Joan chuckles, what a loyal little scout she had been.

Joan couldn’t deny she was good at the guitar. Good at singing, too. Better than yours truly.

“If I let her in, I’ll have to keep her in line,” Joan thinks suddenly serious as her eyes fight to keep open. “She’s nothing I can’t handle,” Joan thinks before she gives in and shuts her eyes sleepily and slowly lets her brain start to power down, thankful that tomorrow is Sunday.

Visions of the day play through her head; the morning of nerves as she eats breakfast, the loading of the trailer that took them to the fete, the practice for the shows, the morning show, meeting Paula.

Meeting Paula.

A smile dances on Joans skinny chapped lips as she pictures the lass in a perfect, probably ironed, white shirt and skirt, a guitar in her hands and her voice. God that voice had been so lovely… so lovely…

Joan’s drifts to sleep with visions of a beautiful voice singing softly into her ear.

____

Sunday mornings are a beautiful thing in the Smith house. Milo Smith will leave the house sharply at 7am for morning services while Joan Lennon will be in bed promptly until whenever she feels like getting up.

The blue jays are singing loudly and the trees are waving to the oceans currents when a young 16 year old girl starts to stir in her bed. With one foot handing loosely over the side of her twin bed, and a pool of drool laying on her pillow Joan slowly starts to open her eyes. She yawns once, twice then shuffles in her covers until she’s laying on her back, the ceiling looming above her.

She takes a deep breath and happily lets it go. Sunday. Such a great day Sunday.

She shoves her duvet off and swings her feet over the side of her little twin bed, her bedside clock says 9:36. The morning sun is streaming through the window, catching dust in its rays and reflecting brightly against the mirror on Joans wardrobe.

Rubbing the sand from the corners of her eyes Joan stands and makes her way to the bathroom, the wooden planks of the hallway creaking beneath her. She turns the shower on and pulls a towel from under the sink to hang over the curtain rod. Slipping her pink nightie off she shoves it to the floor to be forgotten until Milo finds it hours later.

Morning showers are either amazing or down right horrible, and in this case the hot water and warm steam made this teenager feel as if she was on cloud nine. The water is slowing bringing Joan to all of her senses as she starts to lathers her brown locks with rose shampoo.

“It’s going to be a good day,” she thinks. “I just know it.”

_____

The phone at the bottom of the stairs starts to ring just as Joan is about to spit toothpaste into the sink. Quickly wiping her mouth and wrapping her towel around her body she stumbles down the stairs, water dripping onto the wooden steps. “Smith residence, Lovely Joan Lennon speaking,” she says with a sadistic smile and a sing songy voice.

“Joan! Are you coming to Nancy’s party tonight?” It’s Patricia Shotton on the other end, probably using half of her allowance to make this call.

“What party? I was never informed.”

“Well be there! I heard there’s gonna be booze and tons of guys, even Bobby Baker,” the blonde beauty on the other side of the phone croons out the boys name.

“Hmm, well in that case I guess I MUST go huh?”

“Yes. As my mate you must, I’ll meet you in the school yard at 8, we can take the third bus from there.”

“Alright Shotton, don’t be late! See you then.”

“Bye Lennon!”

Joan clicks the phone back into place and makes her way back up the stairs with a smile on her face. The only worry in her head is how she’s going to sneak out of the house tonight.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think this series is going to be my baby, in which I’m going to try very hard to make it good. Thanks for reading! I'll update this series every Tuesday and you can also find it on my Tumblr https://www.tumblr.com/blog/dribblebeatles


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